


Purify

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Servamp
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Established Relationship, Insults, Love/Hate, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Physical Abuse, Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Vampires, Verbal Abuse, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6988312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lawless can remember seeing Licht across the span of a concert hall, the distance made unimportant to the focus of his gaze, can remember the set of Licht’s fingers against ivory-pale keys and the surge of music than spilled from the piano, and he can remember the adrenaline that hit him in that moment, the rush of heat through him enough to flutter even his still pulse to a moment of action again, and he knew he’d do anything at all to have those fingers granting warmth to his cool skin the way they grant voice to silent keys." Lawless is desperate for Licht's touch, and Licht makes him suffer for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purify

Lawless likes Licht to touch him. He craves it like an addiction, like a thirst to lie alongside the bred-in ache for blood that clings to his bones and tracks the pattern of Licht’s heartbeat against the artery in the other’s throat; but that is reasonable, that’s a need as easily explained by _what_ he is as it is by _who_. But Lawless can remember seeing Licht across the span of a concert hall, the distance made unimportant under the focus of his gaze, can remember the set of Licht’s fingers against ivory-pale keys and the surge of music that spilled from the piano, and he can remember the adrenaline that hit him in that moment, the rush of heat through him enough to flutter even his still pulse to a moment of action again, and he knew he’d do anything at all to have those fingers granting warmth to his cool skin the way they grant voice to silent keys.

It always takes some effort. When he’s not playing Licht keeps his hands in his pockets as much as possible; Lawless suspects this to be from some half-formed desire to protect the delicate span of them from any accidental damage, though he doubts there is much that would be dissuaded by a single layer of fabric if it were enough to offer any real danger. Of more defensive value is Lawless himself, as he tries to point out at every available opportunity; but then again, Lawless is a source of danger to Licht as much as he is a protector, and even if his attacks are feigning Licht’s responses never are. There’s a kick, first, always the sharp swing of a leg to crack against the side of Lawless’s head and knock his thoughts stuttering like the sound of a struck bell; then, while Lawless is still stumbling boneless to the ground, the foot against his shoulders, or neck, or head, the weight of Licht’s boot shoving him to the ground to pant for breath he doesn’t need.

“Don’t touch me, shit rat,” Licht hisses now, the words so often repeated that they slur into poetry on his tongue. Lawless can feel the pattern of the other’s voice ripple down his spine, can feel it jar the leading edge of satisfaction into the ache in his veins; but it’s not enough, it’s a sip of water to a man dying of thirst, offering more an increase of want than any relief.

“Why not?” Lawless manages, struggling through coherency past the burden of desire in his chest, past the slur of dizziness ringing in his head under the pressure of Licht’s boot. “I can’t possibly contaminate the one and only angel-chan, could I?”

“I don’t want you to touch me,” Licht tells him. He rocks his weight forward, pressing harder against Lawless’s skull; Lawless can feel the ache resonate down his spine, sating some desperate edge of his want but still not coming close to touching the weight of it. He thinks he could beg for more, could plead with Licht to crush the shell of his skull under his boot, and even in the incoherency of destruction it wouldn’t be enough, he thinks the ache in him would persist until there was no _him_ anymore at all. “You cannot contaminate me, I am--”

“--An angel,” Lawless cuts him off, fast, crushing his words down over the other’s like he’s trying to force him to silence. He’s not -- that is the farthest thing from his mind, in fact -- but it’s enough to win a hiss of irritation from Licht, enough to buy him enough pressure against his head to white-out his thoughts for a moment of too-much pain. Lawless can taste a whimper in his throat, can feel his mouth vibrating with the sound of agony even if he can’t hear it past the ringing in his ears, and then Licht eases the pressure and Lawless gasps a breath and keeps talking, in a rush, spilling words over his tongue fast enough that he can’t be sure if they are his own or someone else’s, if they are recitations from his own mind or if it’s someone else’s poetry he is stealing for his speech.

“I can’t harm you,” he pants to the ground, argument tangling into something fast enough to pass for thought-out reason even if the logic shudders like leaves in a breeze. “Should it not be the other way around? You do wrong your hand too much, angel-chan; you would be purification for my unworthy soul, you could wipe aside my sins with your holy touch. Grant me my prayer’s effect, dear saint, lest faith turn to despair.”

“Shut up,” Licht says, but it’s offhand, as careless as the weight of his foot against the back of Lawless’s head. “You’re a demon, even an angel could not bring you back from the depths of hell.”

“Not any angel,” Lawless agrees, scrambling for traction against this unexpected toehold in his argument. “It must be you, the brightest, the purest, the one and only. It must be your touch, the press of your holy flesh to mine; thus from my skin, by yours, my sin is purged.”

“Shit rat,” Licht says over him, but his foot is lifting from Lawless’s head, and when he aims a kick against the other’s side it lands with only bruising force instead of any intent at real damage. It’s barely enough to knock the air from Lawless’s lungs, to leave him wide-eyed and gasping at the floor like he’s drowning for a span of moments, and then Licht is pressing over him, the thud of his boots landing on either side of Lawless’s hips before he drops to kneel against the other’s body and pin Lawless to the floor by his own weight. “You want me to touch you?”

“ _God_ yes,” Lawless gasps, shuddering hard against the floor just at the almost-offer on Licht’s lips. “ _Please_.”

Licht’s hand comes out to press against his spine, to weight hard against the small of Lawless’s back as if he has to hold the other to the floor. “You want me to _purify_ you?”

Lawless can’t find words for the depth of his agreement. He whimpers instead, whining desperation in answer to the question on Licht’s lips, his spine curving like it’s trying to gravitate his entire being to meet the press of fingertips against his skin. Licht huffs something, half-amused judgment or disgusted laughter Lawless doesn’t know and doesn’t care enough to parse the difference, because Licht’s fingers are curling under the weight of his shirt and shoving it up to bare his skin without consideration for the way the seams catch and drag over Lawless’s hips.

“Purification isn’t a pleasant thing,” Licht tells him, but Lawless knows that already, can feel the truth of it in the way Licht’s touch scorches him like fire, like sunlight burning through his immortal flesh to make ash of his blood and bones. Licht forces Lawless’s shirt up to his shoulders, around his neck, keeps pushing until Lawless has to raise his arms over his head or choke from the pressure of the collar catching at his throat. As soon as he lifts his hands Licht is forcing his shirt free of his skin, leaving Lawless to shiver against the cool of the floor while the other’s bracing palm burns a brand against the curve of his spine. “And you’re still _asking_ for it?”

Lawless can feel all his skin shudder with electricity, with anticipation of Licht’s touch, Licht’s teeth, whatever cutting edge of word or force Licht will drop on him. He curves his back, lets his shoulders arch up to make an offering of himself for the other, and when he shifts it’s only to look back over his shoulder, to catch Licht’s dark-focused stare with all the weight of his own. Lawless doesn’t know what’s on his face -- he’s not restraining the heat under his expression, suspects his gaze is falling to that manic desperation he ever tumbles towards unchecked -- but Licht doesn’t recoil, doesn’t flinch away or so much as cringe at whatever he sees in Lawless’s face. He just tips his chin up towards the ceiling, angling his face so the light catches his features, so his gaze is the sharper for the angle at which he’s looking down at Lawless, and says “Fine” with something uncannily close to relish in the back of his throat. “I’ll give you what you ask for.” And he draws his hand away, removing the heat of his touch from Lawless’s skin just as Lawless starts to take a breath of anticipation.

“What,” Lawless blurts, his hand bracing at the floor as he starts to twist himself sideways to stare at Licht. “Wilt thou leave me--”

He should have expected the shove. It comes fast, from his blind side, where he can’t see the swing of Licht’s hand approaching; but still, he should have expected, shouldn’t have been caught so off-guard that Licht’s push knocks the air out of his lungs in shock as his face hits the floor. His glasses creak, the frames voicing protest to this abuse, and the sharp of his tooth catches and tears his lip open, but Licht is talking over him, hissing at him to “Lie there and shut up, shit rat” while all Lawless’s mouth fills with the taste of blood. He stares unseeing at the floor for a moment, his veins flooding with useless adrenaline destined for nothing but anticipation; then Licht lifts his hand from the back of the other’s head, and Lawless takes an inhale, and this time when Licht rocks his weight back over Lawless’s hips Lawless doesn’t protest. He sucks at his lip instead, tasting the bite of blood on the back of his tongue and dragging enough force over the injury so it can’t knit itself back together, so he can sustain the dull ache of pain to warm his spine as Licht reaches for Lawless’s abandoned shirt to pull it towards him. Lawless doesn’t know what Licht intends and doesn’t waste his time asking; Licht is still weighting him to the floor, still casually pinning him down where he lies, and it would be an easy thing to break free but Lawless doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to destroy the possibility of experiencing whatever it is Licht has in mind for him.

“There,” Licht says finally, growling the word into satisfaction intended more for himself than for Lawless. There’s the sound of fabric rustling over itself -- out of the corner of his eye Lawless can see his shirt being tossed aside -- but then Licht’s hand is against Lawless’s spine again, and Lawless loses interest in anything beyond the weight of Licht’s fingertips pressing individually against his skin. He shudders against the heat, his skin prickling into electricity again, but then Licht says “Don’t move” like a command, and it’s then that the pin catches against Lawless’s skin. It’s a scratch, at first, a half-inch slide of a point dragging over his shoulder, and Lawless hisses at the pain, at the hurt so mild it’s more warmth than anything else. But then Licht takes a breath, and shifts his wrist, and the end of the safety pin dips under Lawless’s skin and his whole body tenses with a sudden rush of agony as Licht pushes the point into him.

The pin’s not sharp enough. It would be less painful, Lawless thinks distantly, if Licht were wielding a scalpel, or even a needle, something intended to pierce through skin more than the dull end of the safety pins Lawless uses in lieu of buttons for his shirts. As it is he can feel the bruising injury of the motion as Licht shoves the pin through his shoulder, can feel the agony of it grinding down his spine and forcing a yelp of pain from his throat; and he can feel the heat of it, the sudden rush of electricity that runs through his entire body as if Licht’s touch is fire, as if the radiant pain in his shoulder is unravelling all the details of his self to leave nothing but the sharp clarity of the agony at his core.

“Shut up, shit rat,” Licht is saying from behind him, but Lawless can’t obey even if he intended to; the sound in his throat is too instinctive, too much a reflex to be held back. He doesn’t even realize for a moment that Licht has stopped moving, that the pressure at his shoulder has gone still instead of pushing farther under his skin; then Licht does something, dragging against the pin in Lawless’s shoulder, and Lawless jolts, his whole body quivering as he chokes and arches and wails protest to the hurt. A hand lands at his head, an arm shoves him to the floor, and behind him, Licht: “I’m giving you the purification you asked for,” as he lets the first pin go and works open a second. Lawless can hear the drag of the metal over itself, now that he’s listening, can hear the faint creak of the spring as the pin comes open, and when he shudders it’s only partly with the pain from his injured shoulder, only partly in instinctive fright of what is to come, because he’s going hot, too, because he can imagine his skin giving way to the force of the pin in Licht’s fingers and he can imagine his blood on Licht’s skin and it’s uncoiling to sunlight in his veins as if to unmake him from the inside out. There’s the weight of metal, the cool of a sharp point at Lawless’s unhurt shoulder, and then: “Hold still” just as the force of the second pin destroys the possibility of obedience. Lawless arches against the floor, his body straining to break free of Licht’s hold, but Licht is stronger than he’s before seemed, or maybe Lawless’s own masochism is winning out over instinct because it’s his resistance that caves first, his body that falls to lie shuddering against the floor as Licht’s fingertips lock the second pin in place in Lawless’s other shoulder.

“That’s two,” Licht says, his touch drawing away as Lawless pants against the floor, feeling the burn of the pins under his skin like feathers trying to break free of his flesh, like wings straining to free themselves of his shoulderblades. “Will you hold still for the rest?”

Lawless wants to ask how many are left. He knows how many pins are in his shirt, or did, once, before the throb of agony settled along his spine to chase away any hope of coherency; but he can’t remember, now, and besides he doesn’t know if Licht will use all of them, doesn’t know what the other is intending. But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t make any more of a difference than the fact that he can’t find the air to do anything but pant weakly against the floor to fill his trembling lungs; it’s enough that he lies still and unflinching under Licht’s gaze, enough that he doesn’t try to push against the other’s hold, enough that when Licht’s fingertips catch blood-sticky to brace against his skin Lawless shudders more with heat than with fear.

There are eight, in the end. Lawless expects to lose his count somewhere along the way, but it’s impossible to misplace his memory of one of the pins when he can feel each one scorching a sunburst of pain out into his body after Licht places it. They run down his back, marking out a matched path along his spine with such symmetry Lawless suspects it would look pre-planned to an outside observer. For himself the most he can appreciate is the ache of it, the way the pressure of the pins under his skin lingers in spite of his immortality, the way the weight of the metal is enough to keep the hurt clinging as close to him as his breathing even through the minutes it takes Licht to force all eight of the safety pins into place. Lawless is trembling with it by the time Licht is done, his body shaking helplessly under the weight of _wrong_ radiating out alongside his spine; but Licht doesn’t pull away, just rocks back on his heels and drops his hands to rest against the angle of Lawless’s hips, to press bloody fingerprints against the line of bone just under the other’s skin.

“Better,” he announces, his voice purring over the sound like he’s relishing the word; or maybe it’s the sight he’s appreciating more than the sound of his voice in his ears. His fingers tense at Lawless’s hips, his weight tilts forward by an inch; for a heartbeat Lawless can imagine heat against the base of his spine, can imagine the weight of desire pinning Licht close against his skin. “But not enough.” His hand drags sideways, catching blinding-sharp pain against one of the pins as he moves, and Lawless is still gasping with the hurt when Licht braces himself against the small of the other’s back and shoves himself to upright. Lawless feels the other’s absence like a chill, like sunshine suddenly slipping behind a cloud, and when he opens his mouth to whimper it’s more from that loss than from any protest to the pins marking out a pattern across his back. Licht misattributes the sound, or doesn’t care enough to determine the actual cause; his hand catches at Lawless’s head and shoves the other’s face against the ground, and when he orders, “Don’t move,” Lawless can feel it all down his spine with the force of a true command and not just the offhand orders Licht carelessly throws at him as a matter of course. Lawless doesn’t so much as twitch, doesn’t even breathe as Licht shifts to move away and down the hallway; even when he hears the sound of a drawer opening in the other room he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift his shoulders to attempt some comfort or reach up to fret the pins into sharper pain. There’s a trickle of blood along his shoulder; he can feel it slide across his skin before it catches at the dip of his spine to cool and clot over the sharp edge of his vertebrae. His shoulders are aching, his whole body trembling uncontrollably as if the motion is likely to help ease the agony blistering like sunlight across his back; and then Licht’s footsteps return, the weight of his pace heavy enough to undo the fiction of wings he so likes to cling to, and when he steps in over Lawless’s body it’s close, so near Lawless can feel the glancing contact of Licht’s pants at his hip as the other drops to his knees over the other.

“You didn’t move,” Licht says, sounding very nearly put out by Lawless’s obedience as if he hadn’t ordered him to stillness himself a moment before. There’s the sound of something hitting the floor, a weight that rattles loud as it’s dropped alongside Lawless’s hip, but Lawless doesn’t turn to look at it; Licht is bracing a hand at his spine again, his fingers dipping to smear through the puddle of blood trickling against the other’s spine. “Have you finally decided to be obedient to your master as you should be?”

“Licht-tan--” Lawless starts, aiming for his usual taunting laugh, but then Licht’s fingers catch against the pin set over his shoulder, and the mania of his laughter skips in his throat to turn into a wail of pain instead. He can’t help the shudder of motion that comes with the pain, the instinctive attempt to jerk away that only makes the pressure the worse as his skin catches and drags against the pin through his shoulder, and the pull makes his vision flare to white, knocks him breathless and sightless against the floor for a moment of pain so sharp even his awareness of his self-christened name evaporates for a heartbeat.

“I told you to be still,” Licht is saying, somewhere in the haze of unbearable pain, and the pressure isn’t easing even when Lawless falls slack and trembling to the floor. Something is pulling at his shoulder, Licht is doing something with the pin through his skin, and then there’s a tug at the other side, a flash of pain from the match to the first impromptu piercing, and Lawless’s throat turns itself inside out on a moan that is as much involuntary heat as it is pain. It hurts too much to enjoy, the sharp edge of the agony is too bright to be pleasant; but it’s giving him what is better than pleasure would be, what is better than the simple animal satisfaction of fresh blood in his throat or the minimally more complex pleasure of hurt from Licht driving the toe of his shoe into Lawless’s leg, or ribs, or cheekbone. This is different, clearer and brighter and more overwhelming, the bright of dawn compared to the nighttime moon of the usual blows, and Lawless can’t hold himself together under the assault, can’t hold to his past or his future or even his present, can’t sustain anything but the single breathless eternity of existence humming in his head. Licht is still moving, is pulling against the third pin, and the fourth, moving down Lawless’s back with a focus that speaks to some particular goal; but Lawless can’t parse it, can’t make any attempt at understanding until all the skin of his back is throbbing with hurt like a second heartbeat, like the pain of whatever Licht has done to him has granted him another attempt at the human life he’s done without for so long.

“There,” Licht says, purring the word low and warm and satisfied. His fingers catch at the back of Lawless’s neck to trail down the pattern of the other’s spine; they catch against resistance like the strings of an instrument, dragging blinding-bright pain in their wake as he proceeds. Lawless’s spine curves, his whole body shuddering with the force of the hurt, and it’s only as Licht’s fingers slide down to land at the waistband of his pants that he can parse the pattern of the hurt into intelligibility, that he can make out the shape of laces from the pressure dragging against his back, that he can imagine the pattern of ribbon marking out his back like a corset of flesh and blood instead of fabric and lace. The idea makes him shudder, thrills some deep-down appreciation through his veins, and then Licht says, “You look good like this,” and Lawless loses what little breath he had left to his struggling lungs. He forms the shape of Licht’s name on his lips, parses out the familiar weight of it on his tongue, but there’s no air to grant it weight, and Licht doesn’t pause to give him a chance to collect himself. He’s reaching for Lawless’s jeans instead, rocking back as he catches his fingers under the edge of the denim, and when he pulls it’s hard enough to drag the fabric down and off Lawless’s hips without bothering with undoing the button. The weight of the motion drags pain across Lawless’s hips, a dull pull of friction that barely flickers through his awareness before it’s eclipsed by the ache across his shoulders, and Licht doesn’t bother taking his clothes all the way off; he just strips Lawless down to his knees, leaving the weight of the other’s jeans tangled around his legs, and when he leans in to reach for what he dropped earlier Lawless doesn’t make any attempt to pull away, doesn’t do anything but shudder through a wave of helpless heat. Licht doesn’t comment on this; Lawless isn’t sure Licht notices at all, for the attention he must be paying to what he’s doing with his hands.

There’s the sound of plastic clicking, the slick catch of wet skin against itself, and if the pain radiating across Lawless’s back wasn’t enough on its own anticipation is doing the rest to leave him trembling against the floor as much with desire as with pain. It’s not that the hurt has faded -- it’s still crystalline-bright in the back of his head, still throbbing with every shudder of tension in his shoulders so it’s impossible to forget about it for even a moment -- but it’s gone sideways in his head the way it always does to leave him panting for more while instinct tells him to flinch away for less. But Lawless hasn’t listened to the human part of his instincts for years, now, maybe for centuries, and the pain is brighter by far than the hurt, the intensity so overwhelming all he can parse of it is _too much_ running through him like a replacement for his still heartbeat. He’s trembling through his whole body, his shoulders quaking through waves of sensation that just bring on a new flush of painful heat in his veins; and then Licht’s hand touches at his spine, Licht’s palm weights against the tracery of ribbon across his back, and Lawless arches and gasps sunbright agony in the first rush of friction.

“Hold still,” Licht orders, a command without any teeth, because it doesn’t matter if Lawless is holding still or not; Licht is shoving at his back, forcing him to the floor regardless of Lawless’s own intention, and there’s slick against Lawless’s skin, fingers gliding easy along the inside of his thigh as if Licht is finding his way by feel instead of by sight. “Relax, shit rat.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Lawless whines, breaking the response into pieces in his throat as his legs flex against the floor as if he can urge Licht’s touch higher by any motion of his own. “I can’t, Licht-tan, _touch_ me.”

“Shut up,” Licht orders. His fingers tense at the inside of Lawless’s thigh, pressure digging in hard against the other’s skin. “I _am_ touching you.”

“Not--” Lawless starts, and Licht moves fast, while the words are still caught between the intention in Lawless’s chest and the sound on his throat, lifting his hand from Lawless’s leg to drag suddenly against his entrance. Lawless’s body jerks, startled into sudden motion by the weight of Licht’s touch, and when he gives up the last of his sentence it’s to choke off “ _There_ ” with as much relief as if Licht were actually inside him. He’s hardly wrong; there’s only a moment of warning, only enough time for him to begin to parse the friction against him, and then Licht is pushing hard with his hand, thrusting his fingers inside Lawless with the same certain force he applies to the keys of his piano. Lawless’s spine arches, his back flaring into a wall of pain at the motion, but he can’t relax, can’t let the sudden strain in his body go. His fingers drag across the floor, struggling for a grip on his own reaction he can’t find, because it’s Licht playing him now, Licht who is pulling the sounds up Lawless’s throat as surely as he draws them out of the resonance of his piano.

“Shit rat,” Licht says, his voice sounding like it’s coming from a very long way away. He sounds a little odd, a little distracted from his usual aggression, but Lawless can’t spare the attention to parse the tone in the other’s voice when his whole body is quaking itself to pieces around the pressure of Licht’s touch working him open. “This is what you asked for.” He’s moving fast, harder than Lawless thinks would normally be comfortable; but then, even in the best of circumstances Lawless can’t muster more than passing attention for his comfort when he’s with Licht. It’s Licht’s intensity he cares about more than his consideration, and it’s intensity he has, jolting out into him with every forward stroke of Licht’s fingers. “I’m going to purify you of your corruption, demon.”

“Yes,” Lawless chokes out, not sure if the word makes it past his lips with any intelligibility and not caring. “Yes, yes, Angel-chan, _consecrate_ me.” Licht makes some sound behind him, something bitten-off and incoherent, but Lawless doesn’t strain for understanding any more than he protests when Licht’s fingers draw back and out of him without warning. The loss leaves him aching, curves an arch of want under Licht’s bloodstained hold against his spine, but he can’t breathe for the pressure of desire in his chest, and besides he can hear Licht’s fingers tugging at the weight of his belt, can hear the force of the other’s movements made clumsy on haste as he pushes the buckle open under his touch. The hand at Lawless’s spine slips, catching against the ribbon as it drags away, and Lawless shudders with the flare of pain, is still quaking with it when Licht’s hand braces next to his shoulder, close enough that the locked-out angle of his wrist is warm against Lawless’s bare skin. Lawless arches his back, feels the ribbon lacing through the pins in his skin strain at the force, and Licht growls over him, his usual “Shit rat” with so much resonance it sounds like a purr of almost-affection on his tongue. Licht’s knee comes between Lawless’s, his weight pins the other’s clothes to the floor with uncaring force, and then there’s friction at Lawless’s skin, and Lawless is gasping for air he has forgotten he doesn’t need. Licht is pushing against him, his hips rocking to force hard against Lawless, and then Lawless shudders an exhale, and Licht starts to slide into him, and they both make a sound so close in tone Lawless can’t tell which of them is leading and which echoing. There’s just the vibration in the air, the sound catching against the inside of his chest and aching along the pins under his skin, and then Licht gasps a sound high, and breathless, and entirely him, and when he moves it’s to brace his free hand between Lawless’s shoulderblades, to shove down against the hurt under his skin as if Lawless needs any further persuasion to hold still. Licht’s fingers catch at the ribbon, tighten into a fist that pulls the pins taut under Lawless’s skin, and Lawless tenses and wails not-protest in the back of his throat as Licht rocks himself forward to thrust hard into him.

“God,” Licht gasps, his voice cracking at the back like he’s losing control of the sound, like the music of his voice is running away with him in exchange for the complete control he has over the tenor of Lawless’s wailing breaths. His fingers tighten, drag the ribbon into a fist against his palm, and Lawless’s entire body arches to the pressure, his shoulders tipping back as if to ease the pull against his skin. His eyes are open wide on pain but he’s not seeing anything; there’s some vague impression of the floor in front of him, of the blank unimportance of the wall drawing up to the ceiling, but it’s Licht’s fingers that dominate his attention, the catch of the other’s nails against his skin and the weight of his fist on the ribbon lacing over Lawless’s back. “ _Fuck_.” The sound is raw, undone in a way Lawless almost never hears, and Licht punctuates it with another thrust, a sharp surge of movement that jolts Lawless forward over the floor and surges fire into his veins from the pain or the pleasure, he’s not sure which and doesn’t care to strip them apart.

“ _Ah_ ,” Lawless hears himself choke, air abandoning his lungs to make space for heat instead. “ _Licht-tan_.”

“Shut up,” Licht demands, but it’s off-hand, and whatever frustration he is feeling isn’t enough to so much as slow the pace of the thrusts he’s taking into Lawless. His movement is rough, without the least consideration for the way Lawless is shaking or gasping or arching under him; it matches the weight of his hand, the tug of his hold against the ribbon that says he’s thinking more of his own interest than he is of Lawless’s. His fingers ease even as Lawless thinks it somewhere in the dizzy haze of his mind, Licht’s palm dropping heavy between the other’s shoulderblades and his fingers spreading wide like he’s printing the mark of his palm on the other’s skin; Lawless can feel the shudder that runs through him catch and still at Licht’s palm, stalling itself to peace at the barrier the other’s touch creates. Licht makes a sound, an exhale that comes loud on heat, and then: “Beautiful,” so offhand and low that Lawless is certain right down to his bones that he’s not meant to hear.

It sounds shocked, sounds appreciative, like Licht’s running his fingers over the keys of a new piano or tracing the pattern of a new composition he’s printed onto a sheet of music. Lawless can feel the weight of that one word go through him like lightning, like flame pinning him to the ground with the force of electricity, and when he opens his mouth to grate out, “ _Again_ ” he doesn’t think about how he’ll sound, doesn’t think about how Licht is likely to react. The touch at his shoulders vanishes, snatched away as if its absence can undo the last few seconds, and when Licht snaps “ _What_?” Lawless can hear the tremor under his voice, can hear the strain of true panic forming itself in the other’s throat in spite of his attempt to hide it with viciousness.

Lawless shuts his eyes to the pattern of the wall and the dark of the floor, feeling desperation crawl up his aching spine and settle far at the back of his skull, and when he answers it’s with the tremor of that agonized want to speak for him. “Again,” he grates, his shoulders flexing to draw the ribbon along his spine tighter, to feel the way the pain radiates out over his shoulders and tenses against his arms. “Say it again, _please_.”

There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation; Lawless doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t try to twist back to see what expression Licht to wearing, to see the look in the other’s eyes as he gazes down at him. He just waits, shaking through his entire body with hope and pain and desperation; and then there’s a touch at his skin, fingertips grazing against the back of his neck, and Lawless loses all his breath in an exhale as much a sob of relief as it is a moan.

“Beautiful,” Licht says, deliberately, rolling the word over on his tongue as his fingertips drag sideways, as his touch bumps against one of the pins in Lawless’s shoulder and radiates a flash of pain into the other’s body. There’s weight at the impromptu piercing, pressure for a moment of white-hot agony; and then Licht’s touch sliding over the ribbon, weighting the fabric against the blood clinging to Lawless’s skin so it sticks and drags when Lawless shifts. Licht’s touch slides along the ribbon, tracing out a zigzag along Lawless’s back; and then he starts moving his hips again, drawing back in a slow slide of attention before he rocks back forward in a single long thrust that Lawless can feel running up the whole of his spine before Licht’s hips bump flush against his. Licht takes a breath, a slow thing Lawless can hear trembling in the back of his throat, and then he draws back for another thrust, letting his touch drag over the angle of the drawn-taut ribbon. “You’re finally beautiful, like this.”

“Oh,” Lawless gasps, and turns his face down to the ground, presses hard against the floor so his glasses shove hard over the bridge of his nose. His legs are shaking, his cock is aching against the resistance of the floor under his hips; he feels like he’s winding tighter with every inch Licht’s touch slides, like he’s teetering closer to the edge of a precipice with every movement of the other’s hips. “Licht--” and he means that to be _Licht-tan_ , means to append the endearment of the last syllable, but it sticks in his throat, goes raw and hot until he chokes himself on the half-mocking affectation and has to give it up. “ _Licht_.”

“Beautiful,” Licht says again, and Lawless thinks he’s curling in closer, imagines he can almost feel the weight of the other’s shoulders tipping in over him. Licht’s touch is aching across his shoulders, dragging pain over the pins clinging to the blood in his veins, but when Lawless shudders his shoulders arch closer, his whole body trying to rise to meet Licht’s touch even though he can’t get himself more than a breath off the ground. “Like this,” Licht says, and he’s making a fist at the base of the ribbon, fingers curling around the tied-off ends so Lawless can feel the drag of the other’s knuckles at the small of his back. His hips draw back, his hand pulls up, and then “Hyde,” he says, and his hips snap forward, and Lawless’s entire body clenches tight as he chokes on a breath and starts to come. He’s trembling with heat, his legs shaking and shoulders quivering, and then Licht twists his wrist to force the ribbon tighter and Lawless wails against the floor as a second rush of heat surges high to eclipse the first. He can feel the pins dragging at his skin, tearing the makeshift piercings wider with the pressure Licht is putting on them, like his whole back is turning to fire and agony at once, and he’s coming with equal intensity, the jolts of sensation rushing through him so overwhelming they don’t even feel like pleasure for the first few moments. It’s not until Licht gasps behind him, not until Licht’s bracing fingers tense at the floor, that Lawless can even think to parse himself as anything but pain and heat and involuntary tremors of sensation, and then Licht groans in the lowest range of his voice and arches forward as he starts to come, and Lawless gasps through a wave of relief secondhand, this time, as if Licht’s blood in Lawless’s veins is flushing hot in symbiotic response to the other’s trembling pleasure.

Lawless doesn’t move when Licht lets him go. He can feel the ribbon across his back stick to the blood clotting sticky on his skin, can feel the warm slick of damp against his thighs when Licht draws back and out of him, but he doesn’t move to push himself upright or to unfasten to ribbon still dragging pain across his shoulders. He keeps his head down instead, keeps his body flat against the support of the floor and his eyes shut to the distraction of vision so he can listen instead to the sound of Licht getting to unsteady feet, to the sound of Licht drawing his clothes back into place and refastening the weight of his pants. Lawless imagines he can feel Licht’s gaze on him, imagines that the other’s eyes are clinging to the pattern laid out across his back, but he still startles when there’s a touch at his shoulder, still turns his head reflexively to look back as Licht’s fingers drag across his skin. Licht is leaning over him and he isn’t looking at his face; he’s looking at Lawless’s back instead, at the seep of blood from abused skin and the red-stained tracery of the ribbon itself, and Lawless’s breath catches at the shadows in his eyes, at the heavy-lidded appreciation laying itself into the lines of Licht’s expression.

“Beautiful,” Licht breathes again, so softly Lawless is sure he isn’t meant to hear, that he isn’t meant to notice the sound. He can’t help the way his breath catches any more than he can stop the sound his inhale makes in the quiet; it’s a tiny thing, barely enough to hear, but it’s enough to drag Licht’s attention up to Lawless’s face instead, to bring his gaze to meet the other’s heat-stunned stare. For a moment they just look at each other; Licht’s eyes are dark, his mouth soft, and Lawless can feel his pulse trying to stutter at his throat, like it’s trying to interrupt a rhythm it never had. He thinks Licht will scowl, thinks Licht might smack or punch or kick him; but Licht’s expression doesn’t waver, and his jaw doesn’t tense, and when he moves it’s to reach for Lawless’s hair, to settle his fingers into the strands with more gentleness than Lawless has ever felt before. Lawless can feel his eyes go wide, can feel his chest tighten on shock; and then Licht leans in close, and his lips brush against Lawless’s forehead, and Lawless whimpers in helpless surprise at the contact.

“Beautiful,” Licht says again, a murmur Lawless can feel better than he can hear it; and then he straightens, and turns away, and by the time Lawless turns to look after him he’s gone from sight.

Lawless’s skin will heal itself as soon as he tugs the ribbon free, as soon as he works the weight of the safety pins out of his flesh to let his immortality take over the healing process. With Licht’s voice echoing in his ears, he finds he’s in no hurry for relief.


End file.
